Past Flames
by Sleepwalker 16
Summary: The story of Roy Mustang's childhood, all the trials and tribulations that led him into joining the military. Implied Royai, but not till last chapter.


_disclaimer: I do not own Full Metal Alchemist, nor does this fanfic alter what may have really happened, I don't know, I'm just dumb.)_

Chapter one: Family Pride

Year 1899;

A young boy, perhaps ten years of age, lay sleeping on his desk surrounded by books of probably the strangest origins. They were all Alchemy books, each of them were depicted in a foreign language. Also scattered across the large oak desk were papers with short-hand writing scribbled on them. The young boy spent all night translating these Alchemy books, but he fell asleep before he could finish. His eyes fluttered open. His black hair brushed his face as he sat up from sleeping face down in his own drool. Using the front of his shirt, he wiped the drool off his face. He was never one for refinement, in fact, he couldn't care less. Despite the fact his parents were very wealthy tradesmen and lived in a very prestigious manor and were greatly respected. The boy would always scoff at this statement and would reply pessimistically,

"All they care about is their reputation. Which they would hate to have tarnished." The people of his home town, Durren, would say that the son would be the family's downfall.

"He'll destroy everything they worked so hard for." He said to himself, repeating the harsh words he would usually hear on a trip to town. He sighed and continued to speak to himself as he gathered and organized the papers. "If father dearest' life-style as we knew it is destroyed, it won't be by me I can guarantee you..." Not only were they highly respected tradesmen, the family had a long history of successful Alchemists. That's really the only thing that mattered to anyone in the family; Alchemy. That's how they got so successful. It's by Alchemy they manage to keep the town thriving. People didn't care as much about how the son acted, just as long as he became as good an Alchemist as his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and so on. And as long as he continued the family legacy, they'd be happy. But they really doubted something like that would ever happen, because he was a bit of a trouble-maker and he couldn't care less about Alchemy or family legacies.

"Just a legacy of stuck-ups." He would say. This did not please his father one bit. His father would put his son through the most rigorous tests money could buy. "If we are just a bunch of spoiled stuck-ups, then I wouldn't want that to happen to you," he would always say over his son. Like a tyrant, or dictator, he always expected the best out of anyone. He would do anything to keep all the dreams he built up from the ground, and he wouldn't let anyone, not even his own son, destroy that.

He heard approaching footsteps. He knew those feet. He knew he had to quickly get all the papers together. He got on hands and knees on the floor picking up books and papers. He scrambled to his feet, placing all the papers and books on the desk. Suddenly the large door creaked open. A tall figure stood in the doorway. His dark eyes glared at the young boy. He wore a black law suit and tie, his black hair slicked back in a very professional manner. The boy closely resembled his father, the man who was in the doorway. The son glared back at him with his own pair of cold, black, unfeeling eyes. The father spoke contempuously,

"You're not finished yet?" His words caused the boy to shudder. His father was most definately the type to demand respect, which wasn't something his son gave him so easily. The boy stood in front of the desk, so that he was completely facing his father. He took a deep breath and retorted,

"You didn't give me enough time." The father groaned in frustration and raised his voice to his son.

"That's bull shit! I gave you a week to get this out of the way! But like a fool, you decide to put it off until the last minute! I realize I was much too soft on you. Now you have three hours to finish this up!" The boy slammed his fist against the desk, his eyes filled with anger and frustration.

"What the Hell do you want from me!" He yelled at his father, grabbing the books and throwing them to the ground as if taking out his anger on them.

"I'M ONLY TEN! I'M NOT LIKE YOU AND I WILL NEVER BE LIKE YOU! I HATE YOU! I BLAME YOU FOR MOM'S DEATH! I CAN'T STAND THIS FAMILY OR THIS TOWN!" His father stomped across the room and harshly grabbed him by the wrist and half dragged him out of the study room and down the hall. The hallway was decorated with large family portraits and statue busts of his fore-fathers aligning the walls. Apparently, family was something that was taken with great pride there. On the other end of the hallway was another set of large, finely sculpted, smooth wooden doors with fancy gold colored knobs. The father swung open the large doors and stormed in with his son. Inside was one of the many lovely living room. In the middle of the large room was a luxurious couch that curved in a C shape in front of a cozy fireplace. And between the fireplace and the couch lay a gorgeous oriental rug. Above the fireplace was the father's most cherished picture; an oil painting of his family. In the photo he stood behind a beautiful woman with long, flowing brown hair and shining, blue eyes. She wore an expensive gown, fringed along the collar and sleeves with white lace. In her arms she held a toddler, about two-years old. It was only in that picture that was painted eight years ago, has anyone seen the boy smile. The father was jerked back into reality when he felt his son pull against his grasp.

"Let me go!" He shouted up at him. His father still had a cold look on his face, hiding the pain in his heart that always came when he zoned out on that picture. He jerked his son forward towards the lit fireplace. Grabbing his son's hand, he forced it into the fire. He cried out in pain, warm tears streamed down his face. Still holding his son's hand in the fire, he spoke softly,

"For generations, we Mustangs had to learn to distance ourselves form emotional attachments. Otherwise, we'd be of no use to serve anyone. Don't forget the pain, but don't let it get in the way..." He took his son's hand out of the fire. He gripped his hand pitifully. It was only in the flames long enough for him to get some blisters. He looked up at his father, tears still forming in his eyes. His father kneeled down next to his son and embraced him. He cried into his shoulder. It was his strange way of telling his son to not be so sad about his mother's death. He quietly shushed his son.  
"It's okay, Roy...It's okay..."

_AN. I had fun writing that! It's so...different from my other two fanfics. This one's so..."angsty." I think...I'm not sure what angst is, but I guess it's drama or something. Anyway, review kindly, please!_


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